Beruna merchants, in a time of change
by Heliopause
Summary: Things are changing in Narnia... How can the Giant, Rumblebuffin, help the Beruna merchants to struggle against the rise of the White Witch?


**Beruna merchants, in a time of change  
**

_**Of course I am indebted for the whole setting and context of this story - and for the character of Jadis - to CS Lewis -thank you, Lewis!**_

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**Master Henfrey, ironware trader,** surveyed the assembly through hard eyes. They chattered like a bevy of housemaids at fairtime, he thought sourly, despite being Beruna merchants all. Though not _all_ the Beruna merchants, he noted, with a twist of disgust at the paltry, pusillanimous, _grovelling_ nature of his peers. If they wouldn't stand up and fight for the right to trade...!

Well, but a good two-thirds, anyway, had turned out for the annual midsummer meeting of the Merchants' Guild, which meant that he could probably count on at least half to be with him to find their own way around this trade-cramping – trade-_gutting_! – new "regulation". So - the numbers looked right; he would start the meeting.

He raked the room with a look, glowering from under heavy brows; the assembled merchants fell silent, and he began to speak.

"Right. We'll begin. I think we all know what is the main business we have to discuss here today."

They all knew, all right, but Heb Goodrim, the nuggety little paper-maker, spoke up: "The river-trade impost."

"Yes."

"What good will _discussing_ do?" came the wry voice of Eineron Spicer. "If this new Queen's made the ruling, then that's what we live with."

" 'Queen!' " struck in Mistress Maddering. "She may have made her camp at the Cair, but that doesn't make her a queen, whatever she calls herself, and she has no right to be levying a tax on us."

"She's killing the trade to the Cair, anyway. When the real Queen was still there, the court wanted decent stuff, but this one, with a ragtag pack of wolves and Hag-rabble..." Master Skinner, dealer in fine leathers, let his words die away into a snarl. Like the dealer in dye-stuffs, he missed the court-trade of former days, so recently swept away.

Henfrey gritted his teeth, and wrenched the focus back to his agenda. "Who calls themselves King or Queen doesn't much matter to me – or to any of us. It's keeping trade flowing that counts for us – and for the country. And that's why we're here today."

"It keeps on flowing – but at a price!" came from the back of the room.

"Yes, and the price is what is killing the _trade_," Henfrey persisted. "I'll be plain with you all – like everyone here, I've cut back on shipping downriver. We all have, downriver or upriver," He nodded in acknowledgement to Master Spicer, whose strange and precious wares came upriver, not down, in small well-sealed kegs and frails from the islands or from Calormen. "as long as we could, and as much as we could…"

"And what did that do to the boatmen's living?" asked Nan Clothier, indignantly. Nan had good friends who worked the river, bringing woolbales down from the northern uplands, and flax from further west, and then taking the good cloth to the ports for shipping. "You would have done better to cut back a bit on your profits – Lion knows they're great enough! As it is half the Wiggles are away already to the northern marshes to live!"

Henfrey quirked one eyebrow at her, mockingly. "You're a great one for caring, Nan, but I'm a merchant, not a nursemaid. It's not my problem – not _our_ problem – where a pack of Wiggles choose to live. Our problem is the trade."

She pressed her lips together, discontentedly, but let the point pass. Henfrey pressed on: "We all want the trade to keep flowing – we managed for a while, but the summer winds'll be running for the islands soon, and... if the river's blocked – then it's up to us to find another way to the Cair ports!"

"But there isn't any other way... There's no high road over the north side of the river, and barely a track through the woods around the Cair, and the only road south would just take us to Anvard – and there's no market-value for us at Anvard." Archenland had its own access to copper; it was the need to trade with the islands which gave that anxious edge to the copper-trader's voice.

"No, there's no high road. But do we need a road? If there was a north road, odds are she'd block that too, and ask for a road-toll as well as a river-tax. But the high plains are free country, with just the droving tracks across them – they might be rough, but they owe nothing to any king or queen that they could rightfully charge a toll."

"No more did the river. Didn't stop her saying we've got to pay her collectors to ship down it."

The meeting broke into a confused bickering:

"She _says_ her wolves keep off brigands – and she _said_ she would make sure it doesn't freeze this winter."

"There never were any brigands on the river. And who is she to think she can stop the river freezing when its time comes, anyway?"

"There are trouble-makers now, enough, if you don't pay her river-tax."

"Doesn't matter if it does freeze in winter, though, does it? It's _now_, summer, we want to be at the ports, for the sailing winds."

"Call this summer? It feels too close to winter already if you ask me. I don't like it."

"_**So...**_" Henfrey spoke over the babble, reasserting his leadership of the guild. "So… _I'm_ saying we make our own way, not by road, but overland, with drays, up across the high plains, swing east at Shribblespring and then back down along the drovers' road and so to the Cair ports through the coastal woods."

The meeting was silent for a moment; then Mistress Maddering spoke again, anxiously. "It's risky. She won't like it."

"Let her not like it! We'd be transporting our _own_ goods, using our _own_ drays and horses, on open country, no made road, no bridges. She hasn't got a leg to stand on if she objects."

"The drove-road goes through the woods, there near the coast. How w'd you get the wagons through there?" The copper-trader's tone was more intrigued than querulous now, and Henfrey marked him, inwardly, as a supporter of the plan.

"The drove-road's rough, but it's wide enough. Cattle tread wide when they move."

"Yes, but when you get to the Cair, then what? That's when she'll be at you, with the wolfpack and that."

"Ha!" Henfrey brought out his trump card. "That's where you're wrong! She's left the Cair, and is making a new camp up Beaversdam way. She's pressed the Iron Hill Dwarf clan into quarrying for her, they tell me, to build a new castle up there, with the main of her Wolves as guards… which should leave the Cair ports exactly the way we want them – open and waiting!"

The meeting considered. If the wolves were away…

"Well, but even so… wolves can move quick. We'd be out in the open up there. We would need guards… and where would we get them these days?" Quirinus, glass-maker, had more to lose than most from a random attack by ruffians on a consignment.

Henfrey frowned. It was true that most of the Human men of no particular trade had begun to drift away from Narnia these days, to Telmar, or to Archenland, or over to Galma. It would not be easy to hire an escort of bravoes and sturdy rogues to frighten off any trouble-makers, Human or otherwise.

The answer came, unexpectedly, from slow-voiced old Grondern, the ivory-merchant.

"What price Rumblebuffin, then?" The assembly swung to look at him in surprise; Grondern seldom spoke in meeting. He nodded slow, emphatic agreement to his own suggestion, and expanded it – "The big fellow, one o' the upriver Buffins. He's done a few runs for me, once or twice."

Mistress Clothier spoke, pondering aloud. "He's been working, frightening away wolves, since time out of mind for the northern flockmasters, so I think he _could_ see us safe across the plains. And the spring lambing's well over, so he won't be there much for the time being. But..."

Henfrey broke in, seizing on this unexpected boost to his proposal. "Yes! And with the lambing over, he'll come cheap, I should think, and not many will tangle with a Giant…"

"Not many who don't know him," objected Skinner. "But most of Beruna knows he's… well, not one to take advantage of his size, say."

"The Beruna boys – what's left of them – won't be our trouble," Henfrey said confidently, "and to the rest of the world, he looks frightening enough. And he's used to dealing with wolves; that's important. And he may not be too bright, but he can take orders – and he's honest – all the Buffins are. If he _takes_ the job, he'll _do_ the job."

"But they still might want him for protecting the flocks," Nan said. "Without him, there still can be raids from the northern wilds – the Ettinsmoor giants and the rest."

"True enough, Nan – but that's not _our_ problem, is it? That's for the flockmasters to worry about, not Beruna Guild."

"But their trade is all through Beruna, Jakin. They depend on us. If they lose flocks, then that's going to mean a big loss overall, next shearing."

"Yes, Nan. And then there might be less fine fleece to choose from, come shearing. But…" Henfrey leaned over the table, grinning wolfishly, and spoke in a piercing mock-whisper, "That'd be _your_ problem, now, wouldn't it?"

Mistress Clothier huffed indignantly, but subsided, and the meeting laughed. Agree or disagree, Jakin Henfrey could usually make you laugh – and oddly enough when you finished laughing things often seemed to have rearranged themselves to his liking.

And so it was this day. Somehow, with the silencing of Nan Clothier, it was taken that Henfrey's plan was the right and logical way to proceed; the rest of the meeting was given over to the logistics of the journey, the mustering of wagons, the possible sources of dray-horses. It was barely two weeks before they set off, discreetly, one wagon at a time, to rendezvous with their stolid, conscientious Giant guardsman, out of sight of the impost collectors at Beruna Ford.

By noon they were well out of range of any stray town traffic, and were mounting the slopes to the high plains, in high spirits as the summer sun rose and dispelled the little morning mists. Few of them had actually trodden the high plains before – Beruna lore was that the plains were dull places, fit only for sheep and the dullards who tended them. But the brightness of the day and the freshness of the air – there was a slight chill to it as they gained the uplands – and above all the feeling of satisfaction at their own daring and cleverness gave unexpected zest to the venture.

The morning mists were even chillier as they climbed higher – unusually chilly, said Nan Clothier, who had visited these parts before. By the third morning there was even ice under the dray-wheels, though it vapoured away as the sun rose higher. But those were good days – there was a sober satisfaction in seeing the long train of loaded drays rumbling, jolting slightly on the uneven ground, and riding on them, or walking beside them, the merchants of Beruna, and towering, stalwart Rumblebuffin, swinging his club and smiling vaguely into the sunlight; it was a pleasure, even, to observe the swaying, steady pace of the dray-horses – not talking Beasts, but intelligent and even affectionate in their own way. And the high views were a new delight to the city-dwellers; they found day by day that they saw more and more in the land they had once thought featureless – saw the delicacy of the sharp dry grasses, and the magnificence of the summer sky, appreciated the clarity and cool of the little running streams which occasionally cut the chalky soil, and the astounding glory of the stars at night – the sharper and clearer for the unseasonable frosts. One night Henfrey even proposed a toast at the camp-fire, to the new Queen, for getting them out of the rut of city ways, and the dull river trafficking, and the merchants and the drivers and big, lumbering Rumblebuffin, all drank it with acclaim.

Coming down off the plains was not so easy. In the mornings, it seemed the frost was perhaps a little sharper on the coastal side of the uplands; the iron-bound wheels began to slip a little, rimed wheels on icy stones, and they were forced to unharness two of the dray horses on each wagon, and reharness them behind to act as a drag, for safety's sake. But still, they made steady progress, and the dark green belt of trees which marked the last stage of their journey drew closer day by day. Just ten days from the day they had left, they were back on the low ground once again, and looking to where the droving track twisted its way into the coastal forests.

It was well past midday, and they were almost to the first line of trees when they saw her – a tall, quiet figure, poplar-slender, pale against the dark pines, and alone, save for one keenly attentive Wolf at her side.

Master Skinner edged up to Henfrey, beside the lead wagon. "It's her."

"I can guess. But there's no problem – we just keep right on ahead, just look calm and keep moving. Buffin!"

The Giant lumbered up beside the wagon.

Henfrey kept his gaze on the two waiting figures. "I just want you to be ready, Buffin, if there's any trouble. There might be more Wolves in under the trees. Stay close by me, and wait for orders."

Rumblebuffin chuckled. "Don't you worry, Mister Henfrey. Wolves won't bother me!" He flourished his club, and smiled, broadly. "I give 'em what for if they try anything on you! And if they try to bite _me_, I just shake 'em off."

They were just ten yards from the forest edge when the white figure stepped out into the middle of the track. The driver of the lead wagon threw a troubled glance across at Henfrey, and pulled the team to a halt. Henfrey returned the glance with a scowl, but checked, peering into the dark of the forest. There seemed to be no other Wolves in wait.

He raised his voice. "Ah… Madam. Step aside, if you please. We have important business to carry on here."

" 'Madam'? We are Queen of Narnia," she said, very gently, very softly. "You may call me 'Majesty'. And you must turn back; there is no trade road here."

"Madam or Majesty or what-have-you," he growled. "I am not here to bandy fine words, but to be about my business. Step aside, if you please, and let these wagons through."

She did not move.

Glancing quickly from Queen to Wolf and back again, Henfrey spoke over his shoulder to the Giant. "Buffin! Clear her out of the way."

Rumblebuffin stepped forward, his honest face perplexed, but determined. "Uhhh... I don't want to hurt you, Missy, but you'll have to step aside. These folk are paying me good money to make sure their road's clear, and that's what I'm going to do." He jiggled his club uncertainly before him, in a kind of mimicry or forewarning of nudging the Lady to one side.

She did not move. The Wolf, though, padded forward a little, as if to see better what was about. His mouth was stretched wide, and his eyes were bright; he watched the scene before him with a keen anticipatory delight. His warm breath misted in the cold air.

"Missy…" the Giant's voice took on a pleading tone. "I don't want to hurt you…."

"Lion alive!" exclaimed Henfrey. "You don't have to hurt her! Just pick her up, and put her well behind us! Get her out of the way of the wagons!"

The Giant's face lit up with relief. He stepped forward, so close that the Queen seemed briefly lost to his sight at his feet. Henfrey smiled triumphantly, past the great bulk, to the Queen.

"And that just about settles it, I think, Madam."

She raised her fine arched brows, and raised as well one slender arm, which held a long, golden staff...

And then… where Rumblebuffin had stood one instant before, there now stood, in the middle of the track, on the edge of the forest, a great statue, as high as the trees before it, in every line and curve and feature an exact image of a stone Giant, with a stone club... an exact and precise stone effigy of what had been one instant before a towering sturdy – Henfrey could not make himself understand what it was he saw – an exact stone shape, where the instant before had been the warm, breathing, ponderous, guileless...

She had turned him to stone.

The Queen lowered her arm, and looked an ironic question at the merchant, but Henfrey found himself, for the first time in his life, unable to speak – almost unable to breathe. With difficulty, he turned his head to the driver of the lead wagon – like himself, the man was frozen in shock, dazed and grey with horror. He turned his head, slowly and jerkily, back to the Queen. She was still smiling.

"Yes. We can call this matter settled, Master Henfrey." Somehow, it was not a surprise that she knew his name. "You will now take these goods to our new residence, as the first fruits of the new trade agreement between the Merchants Guild of Beruna and their Queen."

The substance of the trade agreement was all too clear; her smile widened as she saw the meaning of her words register. "Precisely. And after, you will return, and cart back to that same place this great... thing. I have a fancy for it to adorn my new castle, as a…remembrance of this day."

As horror had frozen his speech, so horror impelled it now. "It…it can't be done… Your... Your Majesty. He's too long for the dray."

"It is, but..." The gentleness had faded from the smile; it was all cruelty now. "...you are a clever man, Master Renfrey. You will find a way."

There was nothing at all to say. Without a word, the merchants and the drivers set themselves to the slow and cumbrous task of backing and turning the drays, and set off again, in the creeping chill of the early afternoon, up the long difficult way they had come.

**-0-0-0-**

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**A/N: This story was first written for the NFFR-Party Challenge series.  
**


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